The Tale of Butcher Joe
by Hedgemon
Summary: The first of several Kadie's Yarns: The story of Joseph MacNamara, honorable crook. Rated M for brutal action scenes, some language, and one intense scene near the end. This is rather my favorite, so please R&R.
1. Introduction: Kadie's Club Pecos

When driving through the desert at night, you can't miss it. You're coasting, the chill desert air wafting through your hair, smelling of salt and baked sand. You're watching the road only half-heartedly; after all, no one's gonna be along here this late. You begin to scan the countryside, enjoying the naked view of the stars one gets when they're miles from civilization, when suddenly you're knee-deep in Basin City.

The neon lights drown out the stars so suddenly, it looks like Heaven just slammed its eyes shut. Which makes sense, I guess. The people here ain't exactly kindhearted. Matter of fact, a kid I knew way back when would've killed you for insinuating otherwise. Everyone's dirty; the trash man had better get his cut, or you burn your own garbage. The paperboy has some 'Columbian special editions' for certain well-tipping subscribers. And forget about ordering food to go from anywhere without a fat tip first; everyone from the pizza guy to the drive-up window chick wants their ten percent.

And those are the nice guys.

Below them, you got the dirt, the dregs of society. The gangs, the dealers, and the cops. These fine, upstanding citizens are more likely to beat the hell outta you and take your wallet then to do just about everything else. But even these guys have rules. It's their masters, and the masters of the entire state that you gotta worry about crossing.

The Roarks. One was a cardinal with... unusual predilections (he's dead), and the other's a United States Senator obsessed with continuing the family name ever since a maverick ex-cop ripped the balls off his only son.

Which brings me to the heart of the matter; why I'm sitting here telling you my story while all of Sin City burns down around me.


	2. Chapter 1: Close Friends

My name's MacNamara. Joseph MacNamara. I'm the kind of guy you call when no one else can help. Kinda like Robin Hood with a percentage. I'm not a hitman, nor a sweeper. You want one of them, I can point you to 'em. You're knee-deep in bodies, and the wrong people are asking questions? Provided I like you, consider those bodies gone. You're car's been stolen? I can get it back before the chop shop even sees it. I got two rules: One, while killing might get done, it ain't my job. I might kill in the line of duty, but I'll never take a killing job, y'follow? 

Two, and by far the most important, I will be paid. Not necessarily in cash, but I will get paid. Prime example: one of the Old Town girls, Gail, had a trick run out on her. How he got away with her money and out from her knots and handcuffs I'll never know, but I found him, smacked him around until he apologized, and got her money (plus a little extra to smooth things over between 'em.) Now, I ain't the type to take money from a working girl, so I took payment in her stock in trade. Still have the scar on my back, in fact.

I have a reputation. I'm a Face. Like that fella Dwight over there, (by the by , you might not want to stare; tends to make him a mite jumpy.) Or like Marv used to be. People know me, and I know them. They know I get things done most others can't. They know that I'm one of only two people to publicly take on the Roarks and live to tell about it, (funny story actually, but it's not relevant to our current tale.) So, when Shelley told me someone was looking for me, it wasn't too big of a surprise.

Shelley pointed me to the back of Kadie's. 'The Pitch' they call it, since it's dark and intimate. All manner of unseemly activities goes on back there. All that flashed through my head as I sauntered back. I ignored the sounds of sex, of violence, and headed straight for my booth. I rapped twice on the door, and heard the lock slide clean. I thumbed the hammer on my gun, and waited a bit.

Just as the door began to open, I caught a whiff of something. Something beautiful. A perfume so strong I almost lost my breath, but so intoxicating I didn't mind. As I sat down inside and shut the door, I could barely make out anything. Sensory overload's a bitch.

Somewhere nearby, a woman's voice spoke to me. I couldn't make it out, though.

"Doll, gimmie a sec. Josie's got some band backin' Nancy up, and they're so loud my ears're ringing. Give it to me again." I rubbed my temples, and willed my nerves to work again.

"Certainly, Mr. MacNamara. May I call you Joseph?" I could swear I'd heard her voice before, that mix of innocence and know-how, of naive indifference. I looked up, trying to see who she was. No good. The light was off.

"Sure. What the hell do I call you?"

"I am Drucilla Danvers, heir to the Danvers fortune. Perhaps you've heard of my father, Conway Danvers?" I nodded, then, remembering she couldn't see me, spoke.

"Yeah. I've heard of him." Who hadn't? The only name other than Roark more pervasive in Sin City was Danvers. He owned Danvers Chemical, two newspapers, seven restaurants, and five casinos back home, wherever that was. Under the table, he was kingpin of a massive smuggling cartel that made mob boss Wallenquist sick with envy. Add to that the most successful counterfeiter in Sin City history, and you had a very wealthy man who employed thirty thousand people. Like most freelancers, I'd done some jobs for him, mostly spreading around his funny money. Paid well, as I recalled. He did rat me out to Wallenquist once, but that was over a perfectly legitimate conflict of interest, Besides which, rule three is "don't let personal shit get in the way of business." I called Shelley back here, and ordered a full bottle of Bushnell's Original whiskey. Best damn whiskey in the world.

She continued after Shelley I could hear her smiling. "Good. My father spoke highly of you, saying that you had... how did he put it? 'The biggest balls in the industry.' Rather uncivilized, but I understand. Joseph, I have a problem that requires your talents, and your... gumption, as it were. My father is dead. Murdered. Shot twice in the back with his own gun."

That bombshell almost had me choke on my brew. Well, that was perfect. Either Wallenquist took Danvers' old holdings, or the Roarks did. Either way, it was going to mean a lot of bodies. "Great. What do you want me to do?"

She still spoke with that smile. "Why, find who killed him, of course."

I snorted rudely. "Sorry, doll. You want his body lugged to the Pits, fine. You want transportation out of the city while this goes down, fine. You want a private dick, you hire one. Here, I got this guy; Japanese, but he works wonders. Here's his card; Yama-something, I think..."

She slammed whatever she was drinking on to the table; the smile was gone. "Damn it, Joseph! Don't you understand? I am the _heir_ to his fortune; all of it."

Oh, for the love of God. This dame had it in her mind to take her old man's legacy, and wanted me to help her. "No way, sister. Sure your father did me a good turn or two. Sure he's– was– better than the alternatives. But it's not. My. Job. I'm sorry."

She sighed, and again the scent of her perfume threatened to wash me away. I drowned it in Irish whiskey, relishing the burn. "If that's the way you want to play this, Joseph. At the very least, allow me to hire you as security? I know you do that."

Damn. Once upon a time, I had taken a one-shot job for her dear dead daddy babysitting a crate of guns from Germany, and now it was biting me in the ass. Welcome to Sin City, MacNamara. "Okay, fine. Geez. But at double my standard, you hear me? Double."

The smile returned. "What does that work out to, five hundred thousand? That's fine." The sound of paper rasping against wood, and something tapped my hand. A thick envelope with what felt like an inch of bills. "There's half. The rest when I'm established."

Goddamn dames. I agreed to take the job, and she left. As she was leaving, I caught the briefest of glimpses at a red-headed woman.

Ten minutes later, and I was back on the road. I took the Bushnell's with me; nothing gets a man ready for some action like the fire of perfectly blended Irish whiskey. A three minute phone call back at Kadie's meant that my guns were unlocked and ready. Sure, I don't kill for money; doesn't mean I'm not good at it. I stopped briefly in Old Town to pick them up; one's small and sleek, but powerful. I've seen it leave holes the size of basketballs in men's chests. The other is huge. Calling it a cannon would almost be an insult. Meet Cheryl and Nicole, two of my close friends.


	3. Chapter 2: The Long Night

I called in a couple of markers, seeing what the city knew; what Wallenquist knew, and what the Roarks knew. Wallenquist suspected something had happened, but the Roarks knew less than I did. In my book, that drew huge warning signs. A second phone call, and I set a meeting with one of the movers and shakers of Sin City. 

I sat down at the bar of the Alamo, a bar in Old Town, and slapped one of the hundreds from the envelope on it. The bartender, a kid with the name "Jeff" on his apron, began to protest. "S-sir...?"

"The name's MacNamara, son. You pour the drinks and tell me when that runs out. If that ain't kosher with you, you run it by Gail."

His mouth went wide, and he nodded sheepishly. I pointed to a bottle of Chango, and slapped the cap of as it was handed to me. This foul concoction was better for degreasing enginges, than actually drinking. As I nursed (actually, forced down,) my drink, I found myself looking intently at him. Was he one of the "girls" of Old Town, like at the Amigo? Or was he just a hapless working stiff?

The click of heels announced someone's approach. From Jeff's relief, I could only assume it was none other than Wendy, the unofficial queen of Old Town. She'd been playing it quiet ever since her twin sister's death three months ago; the de facto ruler here was now Gail. If Wendy had come down, I knew either I was dead or she had forgiven me and wanted a cut.

I turned. Sure enough, Wendy was standing right there, her golden blonde hair catching the light, and framing her gorgeous face in a kind of halo. She was smiling.

"Joe, you've got a lot of nerve to come back down here." Damn. I made a show of moving my hands from Nicole; while she watched that, I palmed Cheryl.

"Wendy! How's business?" I only had one shot at this to play it right. If this failed, there'd be plenty of blood on the floor; probably mine.

"None of yours." Sardonic as ever. She began to walk towards me again, her heels sounding like the final beats of a man's heart.

"To what do I owe such an honor?" I slid back Cheryl's hammer.

"Cut the crap, Joe. We both know why you're here." From behind me, I heard the distinctive sound of metal on wood. I was screwed.

"Miho. How're you these days?" No reply.

Wendy was within striking distance. Things kept playing out the way they were, there was only one way to end this with no blood. She laughed, a smile like an angel's gracing her face. "Jesus, Joe. It's great to see you." The metal slid again, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "Had to pay you back somehow for that mess with Soames." Fred Soames. I had forgotten about him.

"Uh, yeah. So..."

Small, steely fingers gripped my wrist, and yanked Cheryl out into the open. Miho was still playing bodyguard.

"What do you have there, Joe?" Wendy asked, taunting me.

"Just a party favor in case you got jumpy." I put Cheryl away, and had a long talk with Wendy.

About two hours later, Jeff came up to me with a cordless phone in hand. Wendy had long since departed, taking Miho with her. I knew who it was before Jeff spoke. I had asked that Dru call this number when she needed me. I snatched it from Jeff, and barked a greeting.

"Joseph?"

"What." Flat and inflectionless. Totally cold.

"I require your assistance at once. Please come up to the house." And she hung up.

"The house" meant Danvers Manor, a palatial estate in Sacred Oaks. I thanked Jeff for his time, grabbed the Bushnell's and got back in my car. Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to the gate. It was closed.

The sentry box squawked at me. "Who's this?"

"Joseph MacNamara. I'm expected."

"If you say so, bud." A gravelly voice at the other end that rang faint bells in my head. Damn it, I was tired of this half-remembering bullshit!

The gate swung slowly open, and I pulled inside. Two elegant, expensive cars were parked in front of the manor. I parked behind them.

Inventory check: Wits, check; Cheryl, check; Nicole, check; backup, check. Okay. Time to see what rich little Dru wanted.

The butler was waiting for me; a snake of a man named Fegan who acted as Mr. Danvers bodyguard before he croaked. Probably worked for Dru now.

"Sorry about your boss."

"Sorry about what, sir?"

I nodded. I got it. Keep quiet, and any spies inside the house were kept in the dark. Fegan led me inside, and up the magnificent double staircase to the dining room. The décor was opulent, to say the least. Danvers had money, a lot of it. What's more, he didn't mind spending it at all, or so it seemed. I recalled a similar situation, about four years ago, when I had passed through here. Munch's _The Scream_ had been on display. I had been told it was the original, and I believed it. If Danvers wanted anything, he got it.

Sitting at the head of the table was Drucilla. My throat seized up. She was beautiful. Her red hair fell about her almost sculpted face like a waterfall of fire. A place had been set for me right next to her, and I sat down. Fegan brought out roast veal with sauteed mushrooms and onions, and poured both of us some white wine; Vergelegen chardonnay, the best in the world. Danvers had smuggled some in, and I'd found the buyer.

"To your health, Mr. MacNamara." Dru raised her glass, and toasted.

"To your father, Miss Danvers." I drained the glass. The high-quality wine made my head swim; it was light-years better than the hooch I'd been drinking at the Alamo. Add to that her perfume and the Bushnell's I'd been sipping on back at Kadie's, and it's a wonder I stayed upright.

After dinner and light conversation, I tried to leave. The dame appealed to my reason. I turned her down. She appealed to my wallet, and I turned her down. Then she began to cry.

I hate crying women. They make me do stupid things. Things like sleep in the bed of a dead man who just so happens to be her father. Damn her. She kissed me then; a rough kiss that threw me off my feet. I just stood there while she explored my mouth with her tongue. She tasted of syrup, of a thousand sunlit Spring mornings and the promise of sanctuary from the tides of Sin City. I pushed her away, and she protested. Ignoring her, I went outside. Damn her and all her kind. I grabbed a change of clothes from the trunk of my car, and headed back inside. I drained the Bushnell's, and went to bed.

It was about an hour later that I woke up. I didn't know why, I just did. I was awake and sweating from head to toe. The moon poured into the room through the massive picture windows, bathing the room in an otherworldly light. Something about this room screamed danger, and my nerves were picking up on it but good. I was halfway to the nightstand when I remembered I wasn't in my apartment; Cheryl wouldn't be there. Slowly, I moved back into a sleeping position. So whatever was going down would go down with me weaponless.

Floorboards creaking. That's what had woken me up, and there they were again. My adrenaline spiked, and it was all I could do to silence my nerves before I leaped out of bed, or something equally stupid. I tried to keep my breathing even as the steps drew closer. Three feet from the foot of the bed... two...

I lashed out with my left foot, and caught the mug in his belly. He staggered back, and gasped for air. Like that, I was up and coming for him. I took him in the side, and he slammed into the wall.

In the twilight of the room, I could see him going for his gun. I grabbed his arm, broke it in three places, and snatched his gun from its holster. He didn't slow down, instead charging me. Behind him, I saw the door open. Drucilla's face poked in, and she screamed. The figure stopped, spun, and started heading for her.

I shot him. He didn't stop, so I shot him again. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

The lights clicked on, and Drucilla was crying. "You've killed him! You've killed him!" She rolled the body over, and I died inside. Conway Danvers, in the flesh. Dead. Killed. Shot twice in the back with his own gun. By me.

From down the stairs I could hear the bootfalls of police in riot gear, and from the windows I could see an airborne searchlight playing over the walls. A cop leaped over Dru, and came at me. I shot him in the leg, but that didn't stop him from pulling his nightstick and slapping me in the face with it. I staggered back, and shot him in the shoulder, hoping to disarm him but no such luck. It's like he was made of iron.

He smacked me again with his nightstick and spat on me. My vision blurred, and I cursed myself for drinking too much. I should have known these cops were in the manor. The cop looked down at me, and pulled his revolver. "You're flushed, Mac. You've really stepped in it now, pal." The searchlight glinted off of his nametag. Rafferty. Goddamn it. It was his voice I'd heard before, back at the sentry box. I'd had more than one run-in with him before.

Detective Jack Rafferty had a history of brutality, even more so than the average Sin City cop. Looking up at his aquiline face split in two by a huge grin, I had a feeling that this was going to be a very long night.


	4. Chapter 3: Too Many Bullets

"You can keep your yap shut all you like, friend. It's not like you're going anywhere. Me?" Rafferty said as his bony fist slammed into my jaw. Something gave. "I'm havin' the time of my life here." My body hurt all over; he'd been at this for an hour. 

"Back off, Jack." Commissioner Liebowitz approached me, laughing. "Usually I don't get involved with the interrogations, but you killed a friend of mine, you bastard." Right. Danvers had been behind his appointment; the only time the Roarks had backed a loser. How did I know? I ran interference, keeping their bribe money from reaching the payoff. I tried to respond, but could only manage a wet groan. I spat blood and not for the first time. Liebowitz laughed again, sounding too old for his body. "What's that? You shot Conway Danvers?"

I shook my head, but couldn't say a thing. Behind me, Jackie-boy spoke. "I think he did, commish." Damn your eyes, Jack. I hoped someone would cut out his throat, and I wished to God it would be me.

I strained to look up, and knew I shouldn't. By all that is holy, Jack was wearing Nicole. I must have screamed or something because he drew her. "This? You want this?" I nodded. He sneered, and I shrank away. "I've been waiting for this a long time, you piece of shit. Have it." He slammed the grip into my skull, and I lost consiousness at last.

When I woke up, I wished I hadn't. I could hear water off in the distance, and the dampness permeated my skin. I was in St. Jude Prison, and in the darkest cell of them all, the one that opened onto the lake. Liebowitz must really hate me. I could feel the rain drip onto my battered skin, and I dragged myself a little closer to the window. The chill felt good, like tiny ice packs applied to my bruises. What had happened to Wendy? Gail and Miho should have been there, should have gotten me out of this. Maybe I was still paying for Fred Soames. (Promise, I'll tell you later.) Frustrated, but exhuasted, I slept at last.

Bright lights woke me up next, and I found myself being roughly thrown into the mess hall. I stumbled toward the table, and found myself suddenly holding a bowl of what smelled like shit. Luckily, some big guy slapped it outta my hands and laughed as it smeared across my uniform. I memorized his face, and vowed to get even; sure, the food was shit, but that doesn't mean I like getting pushed around.

I don't remember anything between then and the body. A dead guy washed up on the beach near my cell and no one came by to clean him up, so I got stuck with the smell. I'm told I killed a fellow prisoner, but I don't hear any details. Everyone avoided me, with the exception of the guards, and I found a stash of cigarette cartons in my cell. Small bit of comfort. I caught a glimpse of myself in a window; had to have been be at least a year, judging by those whiskers, and I must have seen some kind of action; a stitched up wound dominated the right side of my face. I found that I had memorized my cell down to the finest detail when I stepped over my uniform to take a piss.

He'd almost decomposed entirely when I was dragged to a parole hearing to wait until I was sent back. No way in hell Drucilla would let me out. She knew me too well to expect I'd leave her alone if I ever got out. She was right, too. So I sat through that mockery of justice and listened to them call me everything from con man to murderer; they were right, but I didn't tell them that. Then I got a picture of just how scared of me she really was.

It was about three weeks after my parole hearing that she came to visit with that French friend of hers. I could smell her coming, even over the lake and Bonesy. That damned perfume again. I leaned against the bars of my cell and shook. That smell. I could almost taste the Vergelegen again. I could almost feel her lips pressed up against mine again. I could...

"Dear Joseph." Damn her.

I turned to face her, and tried to twist my face into a mask of anger. "What? What could you possibly want from me now, you miserable slut!" I roared, but my voice cracked near the end. So much for anger. She tittered and I fell to my knees, weeping. All it took to break me was to see her again.

"To wish you farewell, Joseph. That rotten District Attorney won't put you on Death Row, so I find myself having to kill you." My head shot up to stare at her. She had to be joking. No way she would want to kill me after all she had already done. She raised an eyebrow, and laughed. "Surely you didn't think I'd let you live? You're the only one who knows what really happened that night, and I cannot afford to be set back any more than I already have been. My fiancee," I felt like I'd been slapped in the face. I slumped against the cot, head in my knees. "Yes, Joseph. I'm getting married. This June. I'd invite you, but you have other, more pressing engagements. Anyway, he has lent me a little toy of his. Joseph, meet Miss DuBois." I could hear the bars to my cell slide back, and heard high-heeled steps walk in.

I felt the cool metal of a gun barrel press against my head, and heard more footsteps echo out as Drucilla excused herself. No way to get out of this one, I thought. I heard the hammer click back, and gave up.

I was surprised to find myself thinking about vengeance as the hammer ratcheted back. I couldn't die now, not while she had gotten away with patricide by proxy. She should be in here, I thought, and I wouldn't rest until she was. I ducked to the right just as DuBois fired, and kicked her legs out from under her. She caught herself and shot again, but not before I'd rolled under the sink. Plaster exploded everywhere, and she cursed. Sparing a glance on my way to the bed, I could see that the dust had blinded her momentarily. I kicked out again, this time leaping from the wall above my bed. I caught her full across the face, and landed precariously on the rim of the metal toilet. Springing back, I dodged another gunshot and landed behind her. I punched her in the small of the back, and rolled to the right. Smart move; she had placed the muzzle under her left arm and fired. That shot went out into the empty hallway instead of my lung. I leapt up as she was turning to face me. I caught her gun arm, and struck it sharply on the wrist. She cried out, and let the gun go; big mistake. I grabbed it, shoved her to her knees, and placed the barrel against her forehead. I think she pleaded with me, begged for her life. I don't know; I don't speak French.

I pulled the trigger. The gunshot almost muffled the wet splat of her brain hitting the concrete of my cell. Holding her gun close, I sprinted out into the hall. Every shadow held danger; assassins never work alone. The lit areas were worse; guards had to be on their way. Too many bullets had been fired for a simple mercy killing.


	5. Chapter 4: Stranger Things

I had made it out to the visitor's lounge before I slowed down. Along the way, I'd knocked a loudmouthed DA out and stolen his clothes. They fit a little too tightly, but I left him with his splint. Poor shmuck had broken his arm somehow. With the nine mil tucked away, I headed for the bathroom and straight for the mirror. An actual, honest-to-God mirror this time and not one of those ridiculous polished steel things. I shattered it.

I grabbed a shard of glass, and found a larger piece. Setting it up against the wall above the toilet, I began to scrape off most of my whiskers. After getting them to where they looked merely pretentious, I addressed my mop of hair. In moments, I had a rudimentary bowl cut, and was satisfied. I flushed the toilet and left.

I pinned the DA's visitor badge to the lapel of his jacket, and walked right out of prison. It was raining. A hard bone-chilling rain that plastered my hair to my head and felt like God was hammering nails of ice into my back. It was a ten mile hike back to Basin City, and I didn't feel like walking.

Looking back on it, hitchhiking was a dumb idea. Nothing better than being freshly escaped from prison to put a damper on your plans. When nobody stopped after fifteen minutes I began to walk towards Sin City, thumb outstretched. I'd gone about three miles when a battered heap of a car shuddered to a halt.

"Where you headed, mac?" A woman. I explained parts of my situation, omitting certain incriminating details and adding others as I saw fit. She gave me a ride. My luck shined through again; it was some dame heading to visit her daughter. I think she was the mother of one of the Old Town girls, but I knew better than to ask.

She had a newspaper she'd been using to keep the seat I was in dry, but the headline grabbed me. "Cardinal's Killer On Death Row!" So someone had offed Cardinal Roark. Good for them. I read further, and found that someone to be Marv. Furthermore, he'd been killed two days ago. The article went on to say that Senator Roark was taking some personal time to mourn his brother. Yeah, right. He's a caring, kind-hearted man, and I'm the Prince of Wales, you didn't know?

So much for that.

I listened to her talk about her darling Rebecca, and fantasized about a nice bottle of Bushnell's Original and Lydia, a Romanian girl under Gail's wing. More about her later. Soon I found myself in Sin City, and walking back to my apartment for a quick assessment of my situation and some real sleep. Prison ain't exactly the place for a real high-quality snooze, y'follow?

I woke up after sixteen hours, and felt like I could take on Senator Roark and the Mob, then spend some quality time in Old Town. In short, I felt like a million bucks. Which is usually when the damn game twists on you again.

Something had bothered me from the beginning of my prison term; what the hell had happened to Gail and Miho? I had discussed their hire at the Alamo with Wendy, but they had never showed. Their lapse had put me behind bars, and I was going to be be damned before I let a thing like that slide...

I took a breath, and set the anger aside. Rule three, remember? I had to see what Drucilla was up to; I was a year outside of current events, and had no idea what the power structure was like. For a guy in my line of work, that's dangerous. You never know if the floozy begging for help is actually from Old Town, or if it's a setup by Wallenquist or the Roarks or, less likely, Dan... Drucilla. A little mistake like that'll get you killed. You want the lowdown in Sin City, there's only one place to go: Kadie's Club Pecos.

Nancy was well into her set when I shouldered past the bouncer. Josie attempted to strike up a conversation, and I politely told her that now wasn't the time. For some reason, she persisted and I found myself listening to her.

"... Y'gotta take this off my hands, Mac. It's all I can do to keep Weevil offa it."

"Off of what?"

She slid me a bottle of amber liquid. By all that was holy, a full bottle of Bushnell's 21 year old malt. If the Original was the best damn whiskey in the world, this was like drinking the nectar of the gods. "There's more, Joey. Lydia sent this for you. Seems a potential trick got... ahead of himself. This was on him." She slid me a matte black hand cannon. Darling Nicole. Looked like Rafferty redid your body.

"How... She..."

Josie laughed that twenty-five year smoking habit laugh of hers. "I didn't ask, but it looks like a certain detective's gone missing. Cheers."

Good news and better. Someone told you off to your face, Jackie-Boy. A woman probably, and you couldn't take it. So you tried to do to her what you did to me, and she ended you. Hot damn, I wish I'd been there to see it. Josie gave me a knowing wink, and moved further down the bar. I was left alone with my perfect alcohol, and my thoughts.

It was time to play What I Knew. I knew Drucilla was in a position of power. How else would she be able to hire an assassin, Eurotrash though she was. I knew she was getting married, she had said as much. I knew that Rafferty was dead, which, while personally satisfying, didn't get me anywhere. I knew that Marv was dead, so the muscle of the City was with Them. (Manute, a lapdog of a minor crime lord, was the biggest man on campus now, fully compitent even after losing an eye to Marv a while back.)

After a couple shots, I played the companion game, What I Didn't Know. I didn't know where Gail and Miho had been when I needed them. I didn't know who Drucilla was marrying. I didn't know where the only other guy in Sin City who could help me was, but I did know where I could find out.

"Shell?" Shelley came right over, a bounce in her step and a twinkle in her eye. (I felt the same way; rumor on the street had Rafferty giving Shelley regular beatings. Now he was dead.)

"Yeah, sugar?" Her voice was the familier sultry tones that had started me on this whole trip. She looked at me, and I saw the glimmer of recognition in her eyes. "MacNamara! My God, it's been, what, five years?"

Five? Wow. "Uh, yeah. Shell, I need a favor. I'm in a bit of a predicament, and I think Dwight is the guy to go to. I did him a good turn a while back, but I can't find him anywhere." I explained my situation, excluding certain things, and rewriting others. Drucilla became "the woman", and Danvers became "her rich father."

She laughed. "You disappeared before the big action went down. Dwight got himself into a similar spot, and ended up going to Europe for a while. He came back with a brand new face. Then he did Gail a favor and took on Wallenquist. Ain't seen him since, Joe. I'm sorry." For a brief moment, I thought I saw concern cross her pretty features, but then again...

I took another shot, and swore out loud. "Ah, well. You know what's been going on with the Girls?"

She nodded, and leaned in close. "Yeah. Word is Wendy has taken control again, and Gail's been away. Something about settling a score."

"So Old Town's ok?"

"Yeah, thanks to Dwight. God, I miss him." Ah-hah. I was right.

"Last question, and I think you'll want to squeeze in extra close, doll. I'll pay." She pressed against me, and for a moment I felt her breasts heave against my chest. My palms suddenly felt damp, and I felt my breath catch. Five years sounded about right.

"Yes?" _Get a grip_, I told myself. _Later, and with Lydia_.

"Whoo... what's up with Wallenquist? What's this about Dwight taking him on?"

She told me a tale about a nightmare of her's ending in a big, fat kill. All I heard was Jackie-Boy's head being passed around like a grisly basketball. He'd've hated that. I grinned. When she ended, she snatched a drink of my Bushnell's.

"And how's the German now?" I had to know. With Senator Roark away, he was the only threat I could think of. Well, him and Dru.

"Things got iffy for him a couple years back. Some veteran really tore up his operation. But I hear he's doing real good right about now. He's getting married."

"Oh. That's..." And it clicked. I knew then that God's a real joker. He loves this dramtic irony thing. My worst enemy was marrying the second-biggest crook in the state. This was wonderful. I needed friends and fast. "That's great. And the blushing bride is Drucilla Danvers, right?"

"How'd you know?" She blinked those baby blues at me, and I struggled with my libido again.

"Let's just say that a little bird told me, and left a Frenchmaid to clean its cage." I tipped her a hundred out of the jacket, (DAs are so funny. They never empty these damn jackets.) She smiled, and swayed back into the smoky crowd.

So this is what Shit Creek looked like. Where had I put my damn paddle? I left Kadie's and reentered the rain. I crashed into the sea of people making up Saturday night traffic, and started heading for my old apartment. I had gotten a block before I realized I was being followed. I stopped at a picture window to adjust my collar and get a peek at them. A black sedan pulled up alongside me and a big man in a suit stepped out.

"Mr. MacNamara, my name is Robert. I represent Senator Roark. He has a business matter he'd like to discuss with you."

Normally, I'd have pulled Nicole and told him to pack up and never talk to me again. However, with the deck stacked and the dealer looking like Satan, I really needed the money. No one had more of that than the Roarks. Again, normally I would just steal it, but I had way too many enemies. There was no way I was going to re-add Senator Roark to that list just then.

Besides, stranger things have happened.


	6. Chapter 5: Long, Slow Ride

I got in, and shivered. In all my years in this business, I'd only ever taken one job from the Roarks. That one ended so badly for me that I vowed never to do another. But, here I was. The gorilla next to me offered me a cigarette. I snatched it away, and lit it myself, ignoring the proffered match. I may have needed work, but I'd be damned before I took even one favor from the bastards. The goon was talking to me, but I'd missed the overture in my disgust at my situation.

"... so you see, Mr. MacNamara, we appreciate your predicament."

"I'll just bet you do fella. Seems like Roark's had his hands full recently."

He smiled slowly, but it didn't reach his eyes. He didn't like me, and didn't think I deserved to be here. Yeah, well me neither, buddy.

"So, Mr. MacNamara, enlighten us. How'd you end up in St. Jude's, and how did you take your leave so early?"

I gave him only the barest details; after an expert frame job, I shot someone sent to kill me, and ran.

"I see. And how did you like your stay?" I said I couldn't remember. He nodded knowingly, and tossed his cigarette butt out the window. "Mr. Roark has always been a fan of your work. He claims that no one but you can publicly give him the finger and live."

"Heartwarming. I'll send it in to Reader's Digest."

"Temper, temper, Mr. MacNamara. After all, a little anger goes a long way, don't you agree?"

"What?" I took a drag on my cigarette, and put it out.

"Ah, that's right. You claim not to remember what occurred during your stay at St. Jude's."

"That's right."

He smirked, and pulled a medium sized envelope out of his jacket. "These should prove quite illuminating." And he tossed them to me. It was a padded mailing envelope with what felt like stiff paper inside; probably pictures of some sort. I opened them.

The first picture grabbed my gut and twisted. It was the face of the creep who had smacked my dinner onto the floor on day one, but now it was pallid and blank. His eyes were rolled back into his head, and his mouth lay gaping. I could make out a thin line on his neck.

If the first one gripped my stomach, the second dropped it into my socks. The line was the mark of a near-decapitation. A gloved hand held the shaggy head back, and tilted the ruined neck into the camera. Behind this panoply of gore was the coroner's report. Whoever had done this was strong; almost unnaturally so. Whoever had done this had done it in one fluid motion.

The pictures that followed were of me, but not any me that I knew. I was grinning, and had a dark gleam in my eyes. I knew that look. Dad would get that look after a night of drinking.

"What...?"

"Yes, that's you. Your nickname in prison was Butcher. You did this with a spoon on the fifth of November three years ago, and were responsible for many other injuries. The prison psychiatrists diagnosed you with something called stress atavism; in times of extreme duress you have the tendency to revert to a more primitive aspect of yourself. A 'Mr. Hyde', if you will. An 'Incredible Hulk' if you must. We were baffled by your lack of history with it until our research pointed us to a possible solution. Your father suffered from a similar disorder. With his example, you'd unconsciously perform breathing exercises that reduce your overall stress. However, it doesn't always work."

No. This had to be a bluff. This could be anything, could mean anything. It... I wasn't...

"We're here."

To call the manor opulent would be like kicking the English language while it was down. The front doors stretched to what had to be fifteen feet. Almost a ton of wood, all of it ornately carved. The doormen heaved them open, and Robby strode on in. I grabbed the pictures, and followed, trying to keep up with his huge strides. He led me down a long hallway lined with priceless objet d'art and off-duty cops in riot gear. After Marv killed Cardinal Roark, I guess the Senator decided to beef up security.

"Wow."

"Yes, it is rather overwhelming. The Senator's right through here." Bobby opened a door at the end of the hall, and held it open. The cops saluted him in, and I almost cracked up.

It was pitch black inside, but for the moon shining through the massive picture window. Nestled in the island of light was a plain, unadorned table with two chairs seated on either side of it. In one sat a man with a massive mustache, a wicked grin, and one of the world's Top Ten Greatest Suits. Senator Roark, in the flesh.

"MacNamara. I heard you were out." His voice sounded like gravel aged in bourbon.

"Yeah? I heard you and yours got the shaft."

He laughed at that, and motioned at the chair opposite him. From the inky blackness, a man pulled it out for me.

"And I thought chivalry was dead."

His grin refocused on me, and he spoke without losing it. "Sit, Joseph. We got a lot to go over, don't we." Not a question. Cute.

I complied, resting a hand on Nicole as he leaned back. He began to speak about his dearly departed brother, and what a kind soul he had lost. I tried my damnedest to keep a straight face. He proceeded to wax poetic about his lost son. A leader born and bred, to hear him tell it. Laughable. I'd grown up with the tales of a hero cop chasing a filthy rapist who preyed on little girls. Nothing I hadn't heard before. Eventually, he got to the interesting part.

"Which brings us to why I need you, Mr. MacNamara. Time was, you could outdrive and outfox my best, which is just what I need now. I need a car delivered to this location from Sacred Oaks and I don't want anyone to know about it. Not your friends at that sleazy saloon, not your girlfriend Drucilla, not anyone. You are never to speak of this to any soul living."

I laughed out loud, filling the black sea around us with my mirth. "And what, exactly, do you have on the table?"

"Two million dollars, a brand new BMW, and last but not least, your shot at revenge."

I blinked. "Say what?"

He leaned in; the cat had the canary in a perilous predicament. "The FBI has created a task force to investigate and bring down the Mafia in Sin City. I can get you a position on it. Not an agent, clearly, but as the project 'advisor'. You'd be able to set policy and infiltrate Wallenquist's organization to bring him to..." He smirked a little, and nodded. "Justice."

I slumped back in my chair. This was, more or less, exactly what I wanted. Worse, he knew exactly where he had me; he'd just offered me everything I'd ever prayed for, and knew he could name any price he wished. The only question was, could I pay? I stalled for time. Hopefully an answer would reveal itself. At least it would give me time to think. "Would I be able to hire muscle for this what-have-you?"

"Anything you wanted. Functionally, you'd be in charge."

I rubbed the bridge of my nose and sighed. Damn, and double damn. "You've got a deal, Roark. One problem, though. Your car's all wrong."

He grinned. "Is that right? And what's wrong with it?"

I smirked. "Don't get me wrong, pal. Your car's incredible. However, it's not a 1970 Boss 302 Mustang. That's the cars the big boys drive."

His grin never wavered as he handed me a set of keys for that exact car. "Well, looks like you're out of excuses, pally."

As I prepared to do his dirty work one last time, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being taken for a long, slow ride.


End file.
